


Pursuit

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Endings [16]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 19:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4492434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You want sad? This actually reminded me, Theron only lives 10 years post-Blight, and Zevran leaves to destroy the Crows and comes back... After 10 years. Imagine a Zevran who comes back to Theron who's just about to/already left for the Deep Roads."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pursuit

**Author's Note:**

> Another angst fic! Blame monstersanosa on Tumblr for a suggestion which allowed me to write an idea I've had around for a while. Inspired by:  
> http://teapirate.tumblr.com/post/18064214172 and http://holyshitdragonage.tumblr.com/post/119938887291/ojiisanholic-i-never-liked-how-impersonal-it

Zevran came back victorious from Antiva to an empty house and a cold hearth. Theron had returned to Ferelden two years ago, when they were certain the Crows were too mangled to come back and seek vengeance. The blond had ensured the Crows were in ruin and the ashes scattered before he followed his lover back to his homeland. Now he was among the last of the legendary Antivan Crows.

At first, Zevran didn’t find it unusual. Theron was probably on a hunting trip. As the week wore on with no sign of the elusive Dalish ranger anywhere near their small cottage, Zevran began to grow worried.

Theron had never learnt to write, so there was no note left in explanation. In fact, the only thing that had changed since he had last lived here was two new, young trees that had either been planted or had taken root not far from the house. They were a good distance away from the treeline of the Brecilian Forest. It took Zevran a long time to realise how long it had been since the Blight had ended, and the horrible thought that occurred sent a chill down his spine.

Ten years was a long time, yes. But there was the chance it was not long enough, that time had run out. Swearing, the blond hurriedly packed his things and set off for Orzammar as fast as he could travel.

The dwarves looked surprised to see a fully armed, leatherclad elf storm through the Commons and make a beeline for the entrance to the Deep Roads. The mine commander seemed disquieted as Zevran approached, but stood his ground.

“Theron Mahariel. The Hero of Ferelden. Is he down there?” Zevran asked, taking care to keep the desperation from his voice and gaze.

“If you’re the cavalry comin’ to save him, surfacer, you’re a year too late.” The armoured dwarf replied gruffly, scratching his beard. “He went down to the Deep Roads, but there’ll not be more than bones left by now. That’s all the Legion find of the Wardens after they go down for that Callin’ of theirs. The men, at least.”

“I don’t care. Let me through, good ser.” Zevran answered darkly, golden eyes fixed on the yawning darkness behind the dwarves. It was a darkness that stretched miles below the earth, with thousands of labyrinthine branches to get lost in. It had swallowed Theron like some fat, indolent snake, and now it would swallow him. There would no sign of their passing, aside from the memories held by the dwarves of Orzammar. Even those would fade in time. Perhaps one day the last great stronghold of the dwarves would indeed fall, as they so dreaded. The Deep Roads and the darkspawn that lurked within like a nest of maggots were eternal. The two elves would be forgotten in the bowels of the earth, but they would hopefully be together.

“If you’re going down there, surfacer, you may as well get as many supplies as you can carry.” The mine commander advised. Zevran nodded in reluctant agreement. Rushing in on impulse without forming some kind of plan, or even making sure he was fully equipped was not something that befitted an assassin. Even an assassin in love.

With one final look at the cavernous entrance to the Deep Roads, Zevran turned and headed for Tapsters to rent a room for the night. He spent the rest of the day buying supplies and planning. Planning calmed him, helped him feel like he still had some measure of control over the situation. That he could still do something and wasn’t helpless. He would find Theron, dead or alive.

 

The next day Zevran woke early, a habit still ingrained in him that he doubted would ever go away. He was an Antivan Crow. One of the _last_ Antivan Crows.

Only a few early-rising merchants were slowly opening their stalls for the day. Orzammar had yet to waken. The Antivan was glad that he’d bought some of the essential supplies last night. Tapsters was happy to give him as much food and water as he could carry in exchange for most of the sovereigns he would no longer need. Patrons offering advice with faces that made it clear they wouldn’t expect to see him return. Zevran didn’t care.

This time as he approached the entrance to the Deep Roads, the mine commander stepped aside.

“Ancestors guide you.” The dwarf offered solemnly as he handed Zevran an unlit torch.

The blond elf remained silent, wondering if those had been the words he’d spoken to Theron a year ago.

The first few miles were uneventful as Zevran  focused on making his way deeper and deeper into the earth. Sometimes the tunnels were lit with oil lamps, other times fenced off pools of lava that radiated warmth and light. Soon, the assassin found himself fighting the denizens of the Deep Roads; deepstalkers that he remembered Theron had found underwhelming, and spiders that spat poison as well as webbing. If he had been any less agile, or any older, he would have been hit several times and rendered helpless. But as it was, he simply pressed onwards until his blades dripped with gore and his feet ached.

So far, there was no sign of living darkspawn. Some carcases that had been gnawed on and left to rot in the cold stone tunnels. Zevran checked, but there was no sign of any puncture wounds from arrows on any of the creatures he came across.

Time soon lost all meaning down in the depths of the earth. The former Crow slept when he was tired, in as safe a place as he could find. He always kept a dagger in his hand, by his chest or under his pillow, and often started awake at every echoing noise that reached him. His sleep became disrupted, but he was used to such hardships.

He made sure to ration his food and water strictly, not knowing how long he would have them for. The miners at Tapsters who regularly came down into the Deep Roads had told him how to find underground streams. According to them deepstalker meat with deep mushrooms was an acquired taste.

Zevran decided it would be best to follow the trail of bodies when he kept coming across them in the branching tunnels somewhere in Ortan Thaig. If nothing else, it might lead him to darkspawn.

By now, his torch lit the stretches of dark tunnels with flickering orange light. The shadows danced in front of him and at the edges of his vision, and Zevran often found himself turning around to make sure nothing was about to pounce on him. His footsteps echoed steadily on the stone, the only sound apart from far-off cries or the  scuttling of unknown things in the shadows fleeing from the torchlight.

Still the Antivan pressed on, feeling the weight of rock above him. If the tunnel was to collapse behind him, he may never find another way out. No-one would know, not even himself. What if the tunnel had indeed collapsed somewhere far behind him?

There had been times where he had backtracked to find a path through that wasn’t blocked with rubble from cave-ins. He ventured from ordered angular dwarven thaig to narrow twisting passages clawed out of the rock and back. Always onwards until his feet were sore.

Time dragged on, and he was certain that he had been wandering the Deep roads for months. The last of his rations were running out, so he filled his waterskin up from a stream that tasted of grit and mould, and when he was next ambushed by a pack of deepstalkers he tried to kill some with as few cuts as possible. The small grey carcasses were roasted over an equally small fire. The dwarves had been right when they said the meat was an acquired taste.

When he examined the latest group of killed darkspawn he found a splintered arrow shaft, the head still buried deep in a genlock’s shoulder. Smiling, Zevran picked up the broken-off fletching and looked down the tunnel. Of course, there was no sign of Theron, but the idea that he might be on the ranger’s trail at last was a reassuring thought. Encouraged, the blond picked up the pace, twirling the fletching between his finger and thumb.

It took several more “nights” of broken, restless sleep before Zevran found a firmer clue; more broken arrows and darkspawn bodies. The blood had been dry for a long time, but it was a good sign that he was still on track. All he could do now was ensure that he stayed on it.

Finally, he felt like he had walked across Ferelden all over again. His rations from the dwarves had been eaten and drank long ago. He relied on water and food sources from the Deep Roads. He was used to finding his way down thin tunnels in the dark, ears picking out the faintest sound. He was better at figuring out where those sounds came from, whether they were in front of him or behind, and how far away.

He was also starting to encounter darkspawn. The first time had been a surprise for both him and the scouting hurlock, it seemed, but the fight was no less brutal. It had drawn more, but Zevran was used to fighting darkspawn, even if it had been a while.

It was another sign that he was heading in the right direction - at least, that was what he hoped as he cut a bloody trail across the Deep Roads.

Zevran had no idea how much time had passed by now. He'd long since lost count of the so-called days that he'd defined by a night's sleep. Perhaps he had been in the Deep Roads two months, perhaps ten. Hunting for any sign of the Dalish Warden he loved enough to follow into the earth.

Regardless, one night he was jolted awake by the sound of footsteps and breathing. Automatically, the Antivan grabbed his daggers and tried to look beyond the weak orange light of his dying fire. If it was another darkspawn ambush, he was ready. He slept in most of his armour. It was dusty and bloodstained by now, damaged by claws or teeth in parts, but his blades were sharp and he had strength enough.

"Come, I would quite like to get back to sleep. Make this quick, yes?" He called into the darkness that surrounded him, tightening his grip on his daggers. Silence answered him.

Grimacing at such an obvious trap, the blond quickly sheathed one dagger and lit a torch. He got to his feet and took a few cautious steps away from his camp. There was definitely something just out of sight in front of him. He could feel it watching him from the safety of the darkness and concealing shadows. There was a faint shuffling noise that echoed in the quiet of the tunnel. Zevran threw the torch in the sound's direction, bracing himself to see the misshapen face of darkspawn or the glittering eyes of a spider ready to attack. Perhaps even a lithe elven figure with a bow at the ready...

A deepstalker hissed at the guttering light and then at him, it’s grey skin flashing like fish scales as it turned and ran off into the darkness of the tunnel ahead. Zevran swore in frustration, but picked the dying torch up and built the fire up again.

Perhaps his time underground and the lack of restful sleep was making him grow paranoid. Here he was, stuck miles under the earth in a cramped stone tunnel that hadn’t seen any form of light in years. As tempting as it was for him to set up camp in the tunnels lit by darkspawn torches, it was far too risky. He would be killed in his sleep and gutted by the first wandering creature. He’d received plenty of injuries from creatures that had found him and tried already.

He’d survived this long sleeping in offshooting tunnels that appeared to be dead ends. The rock walls had been clawed out, so all the Antivan could piece together was that perhaps the darkspawn were making countless tunnels they soon abandoned. As much as he wished for an explanation, he was no Warden who was privy to all kinds of hidden knowledge about the darkspawn or their Archdemon leaders. He would most likely never know why certain sections of the tunnels were abandoned.

As the blond curled up under his cloak and furs, one hand resting on the dagger by his chest, he stared up at the flickering orange light that danced over the roughly excavated rock and wondered if Theron knew about all the tunnels. Providing he was still alive down in this waking nightmare.

 

The next time Zevran woke up, there was a large, mottled brown thaig crawler sitting watching him on the other side of the dead fire. It scuttled backwards when he yelled in alarm but didn’t lunge forwards to attack, even when he grabbed his daggers and bolted upright, ignoring the pain from his half-healed wounds at the sudden movement. They stared at each other in uneasy silence, the overgrown spider’s mandibles twitching.

After a tense minute, the creature abruptly turned and began to run back down the tunnel. Zevran was surprised. Usually, the giant spiders didn’t hesitate before they attacked him. And he’d never seen one back off and _run away_ from him.

Zevran sat there, still clutching his daggers as he stared in disbelief at the dark patch of ground where the thaig crawler had been. He could still hear it scuttling around somewhere further down the tunnel, his hearing heightened in the near-constant darkness.

He shivered, but quickly pulled the rest of his armour on and packed his things up. If he lingered, what if the thaig crawler returned with less hesitance about killing him? Once again lamenting his interrupted sleep, the blond lit a torch and began walking.

He was alarmed to see the thaig crawler not much later. It stared at him again, mandibles twitching, but still made no move towards him. Zevran frowned, and waved the torch threateningly at it. It moved backwards again, away from the heat and light, but this time it didn’t disappear into the shadows.

“Why?” The blond muttered, to himself as much as the overgrown spider in front of him. Why wasn’t it attacking? Why had it run away from him before? Why had it waited for him? He looked at the spider in a vain hope for answers, and watched it turn and walk further down the winding tunnel. Zevran followed after a moment’s deliberation, a nagging suspicion and curiosity winning over.

The creature paused once or twice, as if it was making sure the blond elf was following, but it soon pressed onwards further and further into the maze of the thaig. For all Zevran knew, it could have been leading him to an ambush, but he still followed it.

The thaig crawler lived up to it’s name, leading Zevran through so many different caverns and passages he doubted he would be able to retrace his steps if he was able to go back. Some passages were so low that even Zevran had to duck and make his way through them with his knees bent. Memorably, they skirted round the edge of an underground lake that glowed a faint blue - whether it was from the lyrium veins that threaded through the walls and ceilings, or the deep mushrooms crowding the water’s edge he was unsure.

Eventually, they found themselves in an old, enormous cavern that smelled of dust and mould. Zevran had stopped to take in the sight after so many cramped tunnels, but he looked back as the thaig crawler rushed on ahead, much quicker than before. Even if he ran, Zevran doubted he would be able to catch up to it. Instead, he decided to explore the place it had led him to.

The ceiling was high enough to be shrouded in shadows in most parts, with large pillars of rock either carved or formed to support the cavern’s size. Sounds echoed; the Antivan could hear the steady rush of an exposed stream somewhere ahead, hidden by the uneven floor surface.

Some of the rocky outcrops looked as if they were the remains of some dwarven town or outpost, buildings and houses carved directly into the rock, just like Orzammar. The doors were boarded up, and Zevran doubted there would be anything valuable in them.

Zevran sighed as he remembered Orzammar. It was a distant memory by now, of warmth and light and bitter ale that tasted of dirt. As was Ferelden above it. A chill went through him when he realised that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the wind in his hair or the warmth of the sun on his skin. Down here the air was stale, and the only warmth was from pools of lava that had long since stopped being fenced off in orderly thaigs or fires that lacked true fuel.

The Antivan ran a hand through his lank hair, and grimaced. Bathing was a luxury when he was down here alone, but if there truly was a stream in the cavern, there was a chance he could wash himself and still be able to see an enemy approaching. Once he was certain this was no ambush, of course.

Zevran looked up towards the high ceiling and the walls for any signs of giant spiders. He’d learnt how they tended to descend oh so silently onto their prey. There had been times when he’d looked up to see a spider dangling overhead on thick silk ropes, waiting until he was directly underneath to drop down onto him... The memory made him shudder as he inspected the ceiling, but he couldn’t see any spiders lurking in wait.

Soon, he found the stream, and after a last check to make sure he wasn’t in danger Zevran gladly refilled his waterskins and pulled his armour off. The stream was nowhere near deep enough for him to duck under and wash his hair, so the process of cleaning himself was slow. He made sure to keep a dagger within reach, as always, but took the time to revel in temporarily being clean and free of dirt and gore.

“I never thought I would thank a spider for allowing me to bathe.” The assassin muttered as he dried himself off with what remained of his towel and  pulled his things back on, sheathing his daggers. As he pulled his boots on, an abrupt bellow from the other end of the cavern broke the silence of the cavern. Zevran was on his feet in an instant, and running the next.

When he reached the other end of the cavern, he was faintly surprised to see a bronto carcass. He’d come across the bronto that roamed the Deep Roads several times, but had usually avoided them after the first one had decided to charge at him for getting too close. And now here lay a dead one at his feet, it’s abdomen cut open just below the ribs. It had been killed so recently that blood was still pooling underneath it.

Zevran stepped closer, wary that whatever had killed it still being close by, but he jumped back when the bronto took a gasping breath and tried to move it’s thickset legs. It was still alive?

The blond stared down at it in shock, until a familiar hiss made him turn towards a deepstalker. He frowned at it, drawing one dagger as he looked at the diminutive reptilian creature.

One deepstalker alone wouldn’t have been able to take down a bronto calf, let alone a fully grown one. And a pack wouldn’t have been so neat; he’d seen deepstalker packs ambushing nugs. With those circular maws full of teeth, they were messy little predators. For prey this big they were like scavenging buzzards picking at the spoils of a wolf pack. Zevran ignored the deepstalker for now, and looked back at the slowly dying bronto. There only seemed to be the one deep cut to it’s side, but there were a few lesser marks elsewhere on it’s armoured hide. The major cut was a smooth line, too neat for a darkspawn blade - as if darkspawn would let their prey escape anyway - and there were no spider bite marks. What had injured the bronto and then left it to bleed out?

Zevran frowned, wondering what else might lurk in the far reaches of the Deep Roads. Maybe dwarves, but surely he would have found evidence of them before now?

The deepstalker hissed at him again, but fled when Zevran aimed a swipe at it. He watched it go, and soon he was alone with the bronto once more. The large beast’s side quivered with each breath it took, and as Zevran watched the blood continue to flow from the wound to its side he realised it would be best to put it out of its misery. That was what Theron had always done with his kills.

The bronto began to struggle again and make distressed grunts when he stepped closer, towards its throat, but all it took was one firm push to cut through its jugular and windpipe. Clean and easy, like any other kill. Zevran sighed, and wiped the blood from his blade as he began to walk onwards. He may as well try to find a way out of the cavern.

The blond rounded a corner made from stalagmites, and froze at the sight before him. Someone crouched beside a meagre fire, dressed in the battered remains of a set of leather armour and staring at a dark red-brown something that dripped and sizzled on a stick angled over the fire. They were mostly bald, only patchy clumps of black hair remained. It was clear they were an elf, even though the tips of their ears were withered as if by frostbite. There were raw patches on the side of their head, and Zevran realised with a sickening feeling that they must have been self-inflicted, the skin scratched at over and over again until it broke.

He would have recognised that silhouette, that profile, anywhere, after an even longer absence than two years. But he didn’t recognise the face or the eyes that whipped around to stare at him. Theron’s grey eyes looked slightly cloudy. There was no glimmer of recognition in them, only blank wariness. Black discharge had leaked from his eyes and nose and left to dry, and as Zevran stared he noticed the grey pallor to the other elf’s skin, and the way his veins stood out even darker than his skin on his cheeks, neck and hands. His _vallaslin_ , once so smooth and elegant, was now blotched and fading in some parts, ruined by corruption.

“Theron?” The Antivan said, eyes wide in surprise as he took in the sight of the Dalish elf. He’d actually _survived_ , a year into his Calling and the Deep Roads. Of course he would. Zevran had never met anyone quite as stubborn as Theron Mahariel. It shouldn’t be so surprising that his stubbornness extended to a refusal to die.

There was no answer from the Dalish elf crouched by the fire; Zevran watched as he turned back to the fire, staring at whatever it was he was roasting and occasionally reaching up to scratch absently at the sides of his head and pick off old scabs so they bled fresh again. The blond noticed that the blood that gathered was black, which meant that the crusted discharge from his eyes and nose….

“Theron?” The Antivan tried again, faintly concerned at the lack of reaction. Even though the Taint was obviously consuming him, it had still only been two years since they’d last seen each other. “It is me, _mi amor_. Zevran.”

Theron looked back at him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Not real.” The other elf answered, his voice quiet and hoarse with disuse. “Seen you... So many times. You always disappear. Song is cruel. Can’t make it… Go away.”

Zevran’s heart twisted, and he carefully stepped closer.

“Trust me, _amor_ , I am real. I came to find you, and here I am. I don’t plan on disappearing anytime soon.” He replied firmly as Theron stared up at him skeptically. “Forgive me for being so late. I would have been with you from the start, if I had known.” He added with a weak smile.

“Not real.” The Dalish elf repeated insistently, looking back at the sizzling chunk of something that didn’t quite look like meat. Zevran frowned in concern, and crouched down a short distance away from the Dalish elf. Theron tensed in response, but grew quiet.

“You never were a talkative one.” Zevran mused aloud after several moments of quiet, and the ranger glanced at him from the corner of one wide grey eye.

“Leave.” Theron suggested, reaching for the red-brown chunk of meat. Rather than eat it himself, Zevran was surprised when the ranger instead threw it to the ground on the other side of the fire. The surprise turned to faint awe when a thaig crawler emerged from the shadows and edged towards the offering. Theron nodded to it, as if giving permission, and the thaig crawler eagerly dug into the bronto liver. Zevran blinked. Of course. Theron was a _ranger_. Perhaps whatever bonds he’d managed to form with the many pests that infested the Deep Roads had helped keep him alive? The blond squinted at the thaig crawler as it retreated away from them with the remains of its spoils, wondering if it was the same one that had led him here.

“I won’t leave. It took me long enough to find you.” He replied belatedly, looking down at his own battered armour and some of the half-healed injuries he’d received during his time down here in the tunnels. When he looked back over at Theron, the other elf was staring thoughtfully at the fire again. Zevran couldn’t begin to guess what was going on in his mind, however badly it had suffered from the corruption and isolation.

“Leave.” Theron repeated, more forcefully this time. Zevran shook his head, firmly.

“No. I did not come all this way for you to send me back.” The blond answered, and Theron shot to his feet alarmingly quickly. Instinctively, Zevran followed suit. A good thing, too, because a second later the Dalish elf lunged at him.

The Antivan swore, stepping back and raising his own arms to defend himself. Luckily, Theron was unarmed - Zevran hadn’t actually seen any sign of his bow or even an arrow, unless they were tucked away somewhere. Zevran wasn’t about to draw his blades and hurt his lover.

“ _Brasca_ , Theron!” He snapped, narrowly managing to grab one dark-veined hand before he was punched on the cheek. “If this is you trying to drive me away, you will need to be much more aggressive than this.”

He could have sworn Theron growled in response, and when he caught a glimpse of the Dalish elf’s eyes, they were dark with pure, unfocused rage. Zevran managed to grab the other wrist. The action made Theron struggle to break free with a surprising amount of strength, pulling and thrashing wildly like a headstrong stallion. What was the Taint doing to him?

A foot connected hard with his stomach, and Zevran released Theron’s wrists automatically as he staggered away and nearly fell, winded. The two elves watched each other cautiously, breathing hard from the brief scuffle. Zevran half-expected Theron to lunge again while he had the opportunity, but the Dalish elf simply watched him. Fresh black blood dripped from his eyes and nose to the remains of his armour or the floor.

“And with that I think we have established that I am here to stay, no?” Zevran managed, resting one hand over his aching stomach just in case the ranger decided to try again. When Theron stepped closer, he resisted the urge to step back in response.

“Didn’t want you… Here. Didn’t want… This.” Theron rasped, and even that seemed to be a monumental effort. Every word was spat out.

“I know, _amor_ , I know.” Zevran murmured gently.

Theron took his left hand, gripping firmly enough that his bloodstained nails dug into the former Crow’s skin. Despite the paleness to his skin, his hand was feverishly hot.

“Please. End this.” He whispered, voice ragged with exhaustion. Zevran looked him over again, from the matted remains of his braids and the bloody patches of skin where he’d tried to claw out the beautifully deadly song of corruption in his mind, to the ragged and battle-worn pieces of his armour that clung to his pale, ailing body.  He’d dreaded this outcome and now here it was, quite literally staring him in the face with misty grey eyes. Tears stung the assassin’s eyes even as he reached for a dagger with his free right hand. Clean and easy.

“It’s alright, _mi amor_ ,” He whispered reassuringly, pulling the ranger close to him, into a hug. Theron’s arms hung loosely at his sides for a moment, before they hesitantly wrapped around Zevran. “It will be over soon, trust me. You won’t be alone now.” Zevran continued gently, feeling the Dalish elf begin to tremble in his arms. He carefully tightened his free arm round Theron’s shoulders, and then slid his dagger home with a sharp twist to the left. Theron let out a quiet noise, but he didn’t struggle. If anything he pressed closer, resting his head against Zevran’s armoured shoulder.

The dagger clattered forgotten to the floor, trailing a line of black blood. Zevran made reassuring hushing sounds, bowing his head against the ranger’s drooping shoulder as he felt warm blood flow onto the front of his armour, and held his lover close.

Theron’s knees weakened as his life slowly drained away, and Zevran carefully followed, supporting the ranger until they both knelt on the cold stone floor.

“Thank you.” He heard the Dalish elf whisper into the crook of his neck in the silence of the cavern, and the blond closed his eyes. Tears fell hot down his cheeks, but he ignored them.

“I love you, Theron. I love you, I love you, I love you.” He answered helplessly, feeling the weight of the other elf against him increase slightly as Theron’s muscles relaxed in death. “I will be with you soon, _mi amor_.” Zevran promised, reluctantly removing one arm from around Theron’s shoulders so he could reach for the dagger again.


End file.
